Written.

Sunday, 18 March 2012

Last Day Of Magic

I dye my nails.

And it dries.

Like a bus stop.

When you’re just sitting there and I spit out water on myself onstage before leaving, thinking of all the people I don’t know and I quickly smile at Jamie before he leaves me with people to scatter and in the end it’s me chain smoking on a sofa, flicking through some left over magazine with a few ripped pages.

Maybe he would be a person I’d meet on a bus stop, just to fall in love for a few seconds, nothing really works even his strumming in all the other rooms, it feels like it and I tap my fingers, breathing in harder and music always attracts me in a man, how he communicates with me and it’s always the way that I cannot touch, but I have to listen more and more and it’s as if penetration is a sin and the notes which go inside me aren’t to make me feel this pleasure.

I sit thinking of how Jamie took photos yesterday, his lips a bit tight and Joshua just suggested going off somewhere and how before the drinks he would talk about bands and I’d agree to give him some vinyls as he’d light my cigarette, looking persistent to my lips and those fangs, as if he could bite in my neck and I wondered how would it feel and I leaned in a bit and he just leaned back.

Jamie was written all over my face, distracting all, as if I had been raped by Hince and no one wanted to link themselves to a raped woman.

But then he’d lean in and we kissed briefly and maybe I nudged my neck a bit so that he would bite it, in the end of the evening he held my face with one hand and I grinned.

-

I'll be honest, I have a horrific on and off relation with The Horrors, I just can't get into them, but I've checked and tried them, but I think I like Faris' drawings more than their music.

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Writing just seems to be the form where examples are the simplest and situations the realest.

My frustration is the fuel which my characters face and just limiting the value of my writing to good prose is Kubrick cutting the end of A Clockwork Orange to make a shallow movie about violence.

My work is my anger and everyone's anger at ignorance at those who will limit anyone to the background.

The further work is not about love, love is the aid to get us through society which we've created, born into and have to struggle with every day.

And love is the fuel, the fuel to the anger which I have to bear for being queer and deviant.

And I am not a love story. I am not something to cry over. I am something which should make you realize if you are at a privileged position that you should make a change, if you are discriminated, that you are not alone, that we should all have this fuel and should never just be limited to love.

Because our anger is valid.

We became our anger, so that the love will not only nourish us now, but later when all is done and we are no longer deviant to a society who hates itself.

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I do not own any of the character, band or other names based off real persons and groups; they served only as inspiration for my characters in the stories, whose rights I own. The works published herein and elsewhere by me are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to real life events is merely coincidental. No libel or slander is intended.